


Beauty Born of Things that Die

by Provocatrixxx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gunplay, Guns, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Painplay, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:51:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Provocatrixxx/pseuds/Provocatrixxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The kiss of cold steel against his hip-bone is a shock, and John gasps in spite of himself, nerves coming alight as the muzzle of the Sig traces the curve of his iliac crest, pressing hard enough to smudge a bruise into his skin. He wants Mycroft’s marks, he realises, heavy inky blues and blacks to balance out the ugly red disaster that is his shoulder.</i>
</p><p>Gunplay. Sometimes Mycroft likes to have control; sometimes John likes to hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beauty Born of Things that Die

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all the lovely antidiogenes people for the wars and encouragement. Thank you also to Lestradesexwife for beta'ing and generally squee'ing when I wanted to give up on this thing. I abused some metaphors horrifically and for that I am very sorry. 
> 
> As ever, this is edgeplay, but everything here is possibly not safe, as sane as possible, but definitely consensual.

There is just enough slack in the ropes to allow him to writhe, but nothing more. The knowledge of it sinks into John’s veins like mercury, silver-fast and glittering. Mycroft, it would seem, enjoys watching men take pleasure. John tests the knots with a few quick tugs, and he can feel Mycroft’s amused smirk disturb the air despite the perfect darkness of the blindfold. When he moves too far in any direction, the soft bamboo fibre tightens across his chest, everything connected in an ornate pattern and set in place by Mycroft’s careful fingers. He has nowhere to hide now, every part of him laid bare for Mycroft to explore with his hands and his mouth and his mind. The anticipation is delicious and John shudders, relaxing into the ropes and feeling every nerve prickle with expectation.

Mycroft’s fingertips graze the inside of his ankle, butterfly-soft and gone before John fully processes the touch. He can hear the whisper of suit fabric against the sheets, the heavy sound of Mycroft’s feet against the floor. He’s still wearing his shoes. John swallows thickly and focuses on breathing, syncopates his breaths with the thump of his own heartbeat and waits in the dark.

The next touch is to his ribcage, heavy and deliberate, tracing the dip between his two lower ribs. Mycroft’s fingers are encased in warm leather, butter-soft, and it glides across John’s skin without friction, making him shiver and press up into the heat. The action is futile; Mycroft’s ropework is far too clever, and John swallows his silent frustration as the knots hold him fast and Mycroft’s fingers explore the curve of his lower belly.

The kiss of cold steel against his hip-bone is a shock, and John gasps in spite of himself, nerves coming alight as the muzzle of the Sig traces the curve of his iliac crest, pressing hard enough to smudge a bruise into his skin. He wants Mycroft’s marks, he realises, heavy inky blues and blacks to balance out the ugly red disaster that is his shoulder. The gun is gone again as quickly and silently as it had appeared, and Mycroft’s fingers mirror its path on John’s other hip, leather sliding warm and soft. This time, his fingers continue upwards, following the lines of the ropes, and John shivers and moves as far as he is able to demonstrate his pleasure. It’s an unnecessary gesture, of course, but Mycroft rewards him with the ghost of a laugh, golden and tumbling over John’s skin.

The Sig is cold at John’s left nipple, pressed directly over his heart, and he knows from the weight of it that Mycroft’s finger rests over the trigger, slight compression of the mechanism as Mycroft takes up the slack. John pants a little, presses into the ropes and lets himself lose reality for a moment, sinking into the heavy mess of sensations. Mycroft raises bruises with his teeth, trails stinging bites in a chain down John’s stomach and smoothes them again with the muzzle of John’s gun. Those delicious hands stroke over his head before curling around his nape, petting, then tugging, and John fights just a little so that Mycroft’s ropes will leave marks.

The muzzle is cool against his lips, and John opens willingly, tasting sharp metal and the bitter trace of oil against his tongue. Mycroft pushes in further, too harsh and too fast, and the gun clicks against John’s teeth, fills his mouth and keeps on going until he is choking on unforgiving metal, breathing in gunsmoke. It _hurts_ , and the pain of it tangles in his stomach, turning acid and sharp and when Mycroft pulls away and lets him gasp for air, John almost moans with the loss of it. He soothes long lines down his chest, warm leather slip-sliding over his skin, and John is drowning, lost in the sensations, danger lingering heavy on his tongue without the bitter aftertaste of fear.

The ropes hold him fast, and John can do nothing but breathe through his nose and follow the cool line of the Sig’s muzzle as Mycroft drags it down his stomach. The fore-sight is sharp against his hip, bright and distracting as Mycroft presses it into the soft flesh of John’s lower stomach.

“How far would you let me go?” Mycroft asks, but it comes out as a statement and not a question, and John lets it slide over him as slick and heavy as Mycroft’s gloved hands. 

He trusts Mycroft, he thinks, trusts this dangerous, deceptive man with his heavy gun and his sharp, tight smile. Mycroft is solid in the same way that Sherlock is smoke, and John arches as far as the ropes allow, bites his mouth to hold the spill of words in and savours the bright copper blood that bursts over his tongue. He needs to hurt, needs Mycroft to push him over the edge until there is nothing left of him to salvage.

Mycroft's hands are rough as they press him back down into the sheets, his knees either side of John's hips as he presses the muzzle of the sig to the underside of John's jaw, his pulse hot and fast against the metal. John tips his head back, acquiesces with a groan and feels his heart jump as the muzzle pushes in harder, stealing the heat of his skin. Mycroft makes a quiet sound like the aftertaste of laughter, and he trails the gun down over John's collar bones, adding more smudges of blue and grey to the canvas of John's skin.

The scrape of metal against metal tears the air apart in the room, and John's breath catches in his throat, waiting for the clatter of working parts snapping forward, chambering a round, escalating everything. He is lost to rationality now, his every nerve straining to follow the path of the Sig through the room. Mycroft presses the muzzle against his temple, and time warps around him until there is nothing but Mycroft’s knees holding his hips and the cruel bite of the metal against his skin. He can smell cordite and copper-blood, death and forever lingering in the space between his heartbeats.

Mycroft touches him, slow and greedy, his left hand roaming all over John’s body, fingertips pressing into bruises until they burn with renewed fire. He touches John’s stomach, his chest, slides his fingers into John’s hair again and tugs. His teeth are sharp, stinging where they bite at John’s throat, and John moans again, abandons himself to be devoured. The leather is warm on his tongue when Mycroft slides his fingers into John’s mouth, streaking the bright blood that must coat his lips now. John tastes peat smoke and red wine and he lathes Mycroft’s fingers with his tongue, sucks on them as much to soothe himself as to appease him.

His saliva cools in a sticky trail as Mycroft drags his fingers down, shifting his weight on the bed to better reach John’s spread thighs. The ghost of the Sig’s muzzle cools against John’s skull and he sucks in air through his teeth, tracking the path of the skin-warmed metal down his stomach and over his hip bones. He expects Mycroft to slide the gun between his thighs, and almost braces against the contact there. Instead, Mycroft presses a glancing kiss to his right knee, and the tenderness is a spark of warmth that makes John shiver despite the strong ropes. Mycroft noses between his thighs, alternating more soft dry kisses with stinging bites that singe John’s blood. 

If he could move, John would spread himself open under Mycroft’s hands and tongue, arch into each bite and beg for more. The metal of the Sig is warm now, heavy where it drags against John’s sweat-damp skin. Mycroft digs the sight into the flesh of John’s thigh, drags it along the stinging trail left by his teeth and raises sparks that flicker across John’s skin. He can feel the bullet in the chamber, the energy in the coiled springs when Mycroft presses the muzzle against the base of his cock. Mycroft curls a gloved palm around the head of John’s cock, and the smooth slide of it is at once too much and nowhere near enough. He could keep John here forever, suspended in desperate agony, gentle touches belied by the solid anger of the Sig.

“Please,” John hears himself say, and the word is ripped from him, jagged at the edges where it tears from his throat. It hangs in the air between them for one stroke of Mycroft’s palm, then another, and fire races beneath John’s skin. 

The Sig slides up his body, and John almost cries out again, pressing into Mycroft’s hand as far as the ropes allow, desperate for friction or release from the torment. He opens gladly when the muzzle presses against his lips and tastes himself, bitter and blue, against the unyielding steel. Mycroft fucks his mouth with the gun, sliding it past his lips over and over until it is spit-slick and streaked with scarlet blood.

John can barely breathe around his desperation now, Mycroft’s hand torturously slow and soft on his cock, leather sliding slick and smooth. The Sig clicks against his teeth as Mycroft thrusts it in roughly, and John chokes on it, burning up as Mycroft’s mouth closes around the head of his cock. Mycroft’s tongue is firm and sure, and he swallows John down before sliding back up again, and everything is heat and friction, teetering on the edge of oblivion. John tenses as he falls, tipping his head back even as the gun pushes into his mouth, the sight cutting his cheek, and for a moment he is suspended. Mycroft pulls the trigger, and everything expands, and John is caught in the epicentre of the explosion, orgasm and adrenaline and pure white fire coursing through him until he is shaking uncontrollably, his hands clawing at the darkness. And then, for a moment, there is nothing.

Somewhere in the chaos, Mycroft has removed his gloves. The hands that smooth across John’s flanks are rough and warm, and John runs his tongue over his bruised lips and tries to follow Mycroft’s fingers where they map his intercostals. John breathes in and out and in again, expanding and contracting under Mycroft’s touch, feeling his blood calm and quiet in his veins.

“I’m going to untie you now John,” Mycroft says, and John nods as best he can, tipping his head back into the pillows and letting his mind float in darkness. He is sore, aching, and he can feel the shadows of a thousand bites and bruises that will live on his skin for weeks. Mycroft leaves the blindfold until all the ropes are gone, and John is grateful to him; more so when Mycroft’s hands are steady against his jaw, tilting his head to get to the ties. Even with the lights dimmed, opening his eyes is painful, and John blinks slowly, settling more comfortably against the blankets.

“Drill rounds?” he asks when he trusts himself to speak. Mycroft smiles, and it softens his face enough that John is tempted to sit up and kiss him, to share the sparks the still flicker in his blood. Instead, Mycroft hands him the Sig, and John turns it over slowly, hands unloading on autopilot, spilling three silver rounds onto the bed covers.

“Thank you,” he says, and means it.

“My pleasure,” Mycroft replies.

**Author's Note:**

> Really really really don't go pointing guns at people. Unless they ask you very nicely. And you know what you're doing.


End file.
